Page 56 of Lights Out (Love in the Paddock #1)

I laugh. That’s the truth. I think you have to be a bit crazy to do what Caleb does for a living.

“I think I might have to stop at the fan zone before I hit the garage. I want to film that pretzel vendor I found on Friday. That chocolate and jam-filled pretzel is living in my head. I have to try it. It would make for a quick, fun video, too.”

“Can you get me one? I just want a bite of it.”

“Yes, of course,” I say.

I also have something else that is living rent-free in my head, and that is the thought of telling him I love him.

But I’m not going to do it. I mean, I want to, but I’d like a little more time to make sure he’s on the same page. Nothing like springing that on him the night before the race—and adding a whole lot of pressure if he’s still en route to love.

So I go back to focusing on that decadent pretzel.

And enjoying watching Caleb fight for another podium finish tomorrow.

* * *

I stand at the back of the Collings Motors garage, headphones on, watching as the cars line up on the grid after the formation lap. The same tension sweeps through my body as it has every time I’ve watched Caleb race, but it’s heightened now because I’m in his garage. His space. With his team.

I look over at the wall, where his face is looking back at me. Caleb is confident and strong in the picture, eyes trained on the camera, jaw set. I know it’s a media photo, but I also know that’s how he is when he gets in that car.

I replay the moment he walked into the garage in my mind.

I can see in vivid detail how he looked with his fireproofs on and putting his Driver Comms into his ears.

How he put his black balaclava on, then his helmet.

God, he’s so hot in his racing suit. It’s a sight that never gets old and looks oh-so-much hotter when he’s only a few feet away from me.

We locked eyes as he came out, and he gave me a little nod. Speculation will grow with each appearance I make. My credibility will be questioned, even though that’s stupid, but people love sharing their hot sports opinions, so to speak.

Whatever. Seriously, whatever.

I lift my attention to the monitor showing the race.

I see his chrome car in the fourth spot, and hear JP talking to him through my headphones.

Catherine is standing next to me, as are other VIP guests of the garage.

His parents aren’t in Austria this weekend, so I’m lucky to be able to handle the new media speculation about us without the pressure of meeting them for the first time.

I will do that at the next race, however, which is Silverstone back in the UK.

I continue to study the various monitors on the wall, and then I stop on the one showing the weather. There’s a big, ugly rain mass on the radar. Before I started seeing Caleb, I loved a good rain race. It added even more danger and drama, as if that was needed.

But now? I don’t like it. Caleb might love it, but I don’t.

The energy shifts in the garage. It’s time to race. One by one, the red lights on the gantry illuminate. Butterflies attack my stomach. All five lights are on.

Then they go black.

The cars take off, with Xavier pulling out in the lead.

But the start of a race is all kinds of chaos as cars try to make moves for a better position.

I cringe as Caleb and Mason end up side-by-side on turns one and two, and they are mere inches from touching.

Caleb is trying to overtake him, but there’s not an opportunity yet.

“Caleb, we have time,” JP reminds him. “We don’t want to jeopardize the team.”

“Yeah, copy,” he says.

I can’t even fathom how hard that is. He’s a driver. Caleb’s instinct is to race and win. Yet Mason is his teammate, and both of them need to score heavy points to stay at the top of the Constructors’ standings.

The field begins to spread out, but Caleb and Mason seem to be in a race against each other, which causes extreme tension in the Collings Motors garage. I happen to glance over at Catherine. Her eyes are glued to the monitor, but I see her nails are digging into the palm of her hand.

If she does like Mason like I suspect, this has to be so hard to watch. It’s her brother, her best friend, fighting against the man she has a huge crush on.

I shift my attention back to outside the garage. The dark clouds in the distance are moving closer.

Very close, as a matter of fact.

“Caleb, we’re expecting rain in about five laps, potential for heavy for an extended period,” JP says. “We will need to box for inters.”

“Copy.”

Intermediate tires are used for damp tracks. Wets are used for the best grip in heavy rain, but race teams rarely seem to use them because if it’s that bad, usually the race is red-flagged and paused until conditions improve.

I stare at the radar as the storm system moves closer. The air shifts and begins to pick up. I can feel it blowing through the garage, and the temperature drops significantly. The dark, ominous clouds are over us now.

“It’s raining,” Caleb reports.

I look out through the garage door. The rain is beginning in earnest.

“Copy,” JP says. “Box-box.”

“Copy.”

That’s Caleb’s signal to come into the pits for the tire switch.

But the pit crew has already leapt into action, as this is a double-stack pit and Mason is being pitted first. Mason comes in, and the team quickly changes his tires.

Catherine’s attention shifts in that direction, and she watches as his car takes off just in time for Caleb’s to come in.

The goal is to get Caleb out and back on the track as soon as possible, so a pit stop under 2.

5 seconds is ideal. He whips into pit lane, coming to a stop in front of his mark.

I watch as the Collings Motors team leap into action again.

The sounds of the drill guns securing the new tires can be heard over the rain, and then Caleb’s car squeals as he takes off.

It took 2.2 seconds, according to a comment I heard from the pit wall.

What these mechanics do is incredible. It’s like a hyper-choreographed dance routine, but if one person misses their mark, it can destroy a race.

No pressure, I think wryly.

Now the leader, Xavier, comes in to pit, and Mason takes over the lead. Caleb has moved back up to second, and he’s going to close the gap to his teammate in three laps.

The tension is unbearable. Caleb is gaining, but not in a position to make a move yet.

He finally closes the gap on the long straight between turns one and three. I watch on the screen as Caleb moves down on the inside of turn three, going side-by-side with Mason in the rain, and then he moves out in front as his whole garage erupts into cheers.

Caleb is in first! He did it! He overtook Mason!

Now my attention shifts back to where Xavier is on the track after his pit stop. He’s lost a few positions, but he will start picking drivers off one by one until he’s back at the top. He’s methodical in his approach, sometimes aggressive, but I think the rain will limit how aggressive he will be.

The race continues while the rain comes down continuously, with Caleb still holding on to first, Mason looking for a chance to overtake, and Xavier picking off cars one by one until he’ll be challenging Mason for second.

So. Much. Drama.

And this is why I love Formula 1.

But while all of this is happening, the weather has grown more ominous, the darkness soon enveloping the track. Then the skies open up, rain pouring down even more. Anxiety fills me. It’s raining so hard, it’s sideways .

My God. Surely they have to call a red flag, don’t they?

“Heavy rain is anticipated to be with us for a period,” JP tells Caleb.

“Mate, I can’t see shit,” Caleb says.

My anxiety increases. I remind myself he does this for a living. They’ll stop the race if the rain is this heavy for an extended period.

“Caleb, focus on keeping the car on the track. That’s all you have to do.”

I glance over at Catherine. “They’ll stop it soon,” she reassures me, as if she’s reading the anxiety on my face. “This is awful.”

I nod. She has to be right.

Caleb goes through turn one. The cars on the track are kicking up huge sprays of water—called rooster tails—as they go around, and there’s no way he can have decent visibility.

“This is bloody dangerous,” he snaps on the radio. “I can’t see anything, mate.”

Caleb loves driving in the rain. Just last night he said he wanted rain today. So if he’s saying this? He’s alarmed.

Fear prickles my skin.

“Just keep your focus on keeping the car on track,” JP says calmly.

Anger rips through me. How? How the hell is he supposed to do that in a freaking monsoon, driving two hundred miles per hour?

“Somebody is going to get hurt out here. They need to red flag,” Caleb snaps.

Why haven’t they called for a red flag? Why?

Caleb has just made it through the second turn, onto the steepest stretch of the circuit.

Then right before my eyes, he loses control of the car.

The entire garage gasps and shouts as his chrome race car snaps hard into the barrier on the left in a high-impact crash, crumpling upon impact.

Pieces of the car go airborne. The rear wing is gone, and then the car begins spinning across the track to the right-hand side, sparks flying as the car scrapes the surface.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

A driver from Drago swerves to miss him, and his car juts across the circuit to the right, hitting the barriers and spinning completely around so he’s backward.

His car doesn’t even look like a car at this point, and I’m frozen as I stare at the wreckage.

The silence in the garage is the loudest sound I’ve ever heard in my life.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Caleb has to be okay.

He has to be.

“Caleb? Caleb, are you okay?” JP asks.

There’s no answer over the radio.

Answer him! I plead. Answer him, Caleb!

“Caleb, are you okay?” JP tries again.

There’s still no answer.

And there’s nothing but silence from Caleb’s cockpit.